The Bornean Hawk Moth Explains
It’s the music I make, like this, see, vibrating
my lower abdomen and rubbing my genitals -
it throws them off the scent. Those bloody bats,
they’re always after us, homing in, insatiable,
they are. You can't hear the music? Well, the
bats can, so that’s OK, and it buggers up their
sonar; echolocation, I think it's called - whatever -
the music does it every time, sends them right
away from me and miles off course. Hell, I may
just be your ordinary small brown hawk moth
but I've got this great trick of flying after them
landing on their balls and laying eggs there,
one, two, three, or maybe more, I don't count -
excuse me a moment while I rub and vibrate
a little more - sorry about that, then, as I was
saying, in a while, this is the best bit, one has to
laugh, grubs emerge and munch on the bollocks
which, of course, is the end of those particular
bats’ geneaology. Neat, isn't it? But as a matter
of fact, d’you know what, there are some nights
when I could almost feel quite sorry for them.
